There’s a burning candle at the end
of the tunnel dancing to the flute
of the Piper — swaying its flame
left to right and plumb at attention
collecting taxes from users of the
route — boiling bloods of innocence.
Making the spirit possess itself in
its own way by talking strange language
in a tongue that stirs up lightning
and thunder and fire and water —
and crumbling into the dust covering
the shoes of a lone traveler, juggling
round the cities of men on foot.
Madonna — mother of mercy, minder
of Christ prepare a manger for another
birth, of a star cometh close, crawling up
on us: the one the Jews look beyond!
Look, bend your gaze inward and watch
the watcher chewing rocks and rubble
at the table of lust adorned with greed
from his past tribulation of his share of
hunger for redemption, for salvation,
for his gifting he lost at the toss of
a pair of dice thrown at his face.
This is his sanctuary the place that
broke the bone of his refuge — where
he was chased around naked, beating the
drums of ignorance as he watches his
father’s wife lose herself to him…
in an atmosphere drenched in incense.
– Uchechukwu Onyedikam